Movies for Dinner (The Trip, and Pressure Cooker)

Dear Boo,

There's almost nothing I like better than a good meal. Except, maybe, a good movie. (after I've eaten a good meal. Or before I'm about to. Or while snacking on something delicious.) So, when there's the possibility of combining the two, I will naturally jump at it. Sure, dinner and a movie is a classic combo, but dinner IN a movie? Now that's what I'm talking about. What am I talking about? Right. This week, I saw two fabulous food movies that I need you to go see. Though, to call them food movies is really a misnomer as the story being told is so much more about the people in the film, their own trials and tribulations and hilarious humiliations and struggles and heart, than it is about what they eat (or cook). But in both, the stories themselves are driven by food. It is at the dinner table, over the stove, at the kitchen counter, in the car on the way to the next meal, that life happens, and changes. And these are lives I was more than happy to spend an hour and a half with.

The first was an excursion on one of the hot, humid, sticky, drizzly evenings we've been having lately, with our favorite AMac to see the British film adapted from the BBC series called, The Trip, directed by Michael Winterbottom and starring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. Mom and I had gone to see Midnight in Paris (one thumb down) and caught a preview for The Trip, which instantly had us shrieking with laughter. Steve Coogan, an English actor who you will recognize from such films at Tristam Shandy and A Cock and Bull Story, and Rob Brydon, another English actor/comedian who is less well known on this side of the pond, but quite beloved over there, play sort of heightened versions of themselves. Coogan is that particular actorly mix of arrogance, insecurity, self-loathing, inflated ego and perpetual dissatisfaction that he doesn't have THAT GUY's career. Brydon is the slightly irritating but loveable mensch who, like a puppy dog, is unshakably enthusiastic even in the face of his friend's jabs and backhanded compliments. The result is the somewhat unsettling combination of reality tv, travelogue, satire, and meditation on fame and success.

And then there's the food. In the film, Coogan has been hired to write a piece for The Observer about some of the best restaurants in the North of England and finds himself without a partner when his American girlfriend (the only foodie of the bunch) returns to the States and the two go on "hiatus." As a last resort, he calls his friend Brydon with the tantalizing offer that after trying 4 or 5 other people, he's now invited to join him on the trip. The film follows them as they eat their way across the gorgeous countryside, and between scenes of their dueling Michael Caine and Woody Allen impressions there are incredible shots of kitchens at work, lamb searing in a pan, terrines and foam, and plate after plate of scallops (Brydon, a man after my own heart, seems to order them everywhere they stop.). Neither one a food critic, or particularly interested, Coogan describes a bowl of tomato soup as "tomato-y" and some sort of foamy aperitif as "it has the consistency of snot, but it tastes great." And both did what I find myself doing every time I'm in a fine dining establishment--that is, treating the waiter like my 8th grade teacher, inexplicably concerned that I might do something horribly inappropriate or rude, giving myself away as the neophyte imposter I really am. Watching Brydon suppress a boyish grin when the waiter places a dish in front of them, reverently announcing it as "tiny sacks" was priceless, and all too familiar.

While I sat salivating over each close-up of perfectly cooked venison and ladles of velvety sauce, and could have stood to linger a bit more with the kitchen footage, the film isn't really about that. And if it means giving up any time watching the two of them volley the comedy ball back and forth, I wouldn't change a thing. Go see it. Bring a tissue--you might drool a bit, but you'll definitely laugh til you cry.

The other foodie film I saw will require tissues as well, but for a different kind of tears.

Before we go any further, I'd be remiss to not introduce you to my new friend, Roku. Despite what you may hear from the Fiance, she is not a tiny chambermaid living in our closet. She is, rather, a birthday/engagement gift from our lovely friend Jeff, a small (that part is true) device which sits on top of our DVD player and makes it possible to stream netflix, hulu, and movies from amazon to our TV. In short, she is a life-changing piece of metal. Roku has allowed me to avoid leaving my house more often than absolutely necessary, and to indulge in all my latest guilty pleasures, including Say Yes to the Dress, No Reservations, Man vs Food, and Oliver's Twist. I'm sensing a theme. Anyway, last night after my class, alone in the apartment while the Fiance was off playing basketball and eating grilled by none other than Grill-A-Chef himself, I decided to take a chance on a film that had been languishing in my netflix queue for far too long.

Pressure Cooker is a documentary about the students in Mrs. Stephenson's Culinary Arts class at Frankford High, in inner-city Philadelphia. Mrs. Stephenson is a fire-cracker, that kind of teacher who chases kids down the hall calling them low-lifes until they cave and pull off their headphones. The kind of teacher who throws someone out of class if they so much as glance at the clock above the door. But she's also, as so many of them are, the kind of teacher who demands excellence from her students because she respects how capable and talented they are, and how many odds are already stacked against them. The kind who goes prom dress shopping with her students if they don't have a mom around to do it with them, who cheers in the stands at football games, and lashes out at any man, woman, or child, who shows her kids anything less than respect and kindness. Every year, her class trains for a city-wide culinary arts competition (judged by the likes of Iron Chef Morimoto) the results of which come in the form of full or part scholarships to college. By the end of the film, when the competition is in its finals, the tension is thicker than the pastry cream each student is required to make (sorry). These kids are quite literally, cooking for their lives. A perfectly peeled, diced and seeded tomato can mean getting out from under the thumb of an oppressive father, or pursuing a personal dream instead of being the head of a household at 17. Of course, these are the big stakes. Then there are the smaller ones, all the myriad benefits of learning a craft, an art (after all there's a reason it's called Culinary ARTS), and the reason it is mind-boggling to me that anyone can justify cutting funding for the arts in schools (if you want to support these kind of scholarship programs, go here). There's the discipline, the self-esteem, the self-expression, the pure joy, that comes with dedication to a craft. Watching the students discover this, and how hard they work towards this goal, is not only heart-warming, it's delicious.

I know you're opening a show tonight (Break a Leg!!!) and will be busy with that through Saturday, but when you find yourself with a rare free night, having forgotten what one does when one is not due at rehearsal or a performance, I encourage you to watch these films. Like a great meal, I'd venture to say they're both good for the soul.

Love,

The Mouse

And because no movie watching is complete without popcorn, here's my favorite way to dress up a batch at home (you can always pack it into zip-loc bags and stash it in your coat when you go out to the movie theater.)

The Mouse's favorite Movie-Night Popcorn

This is a riff on the mexican corn on the cob (or elote), which I often see at latin restaurants in the city, or better yet at street fairs, grilled until slightly charred, and then slathered with butter, either mayonnaise or sour cream, chile powder, and grated cheese. I like it with a squeeze of lime as well.

What You'll Need:
Popcorn
Butter
Chile powder or Cayenne Pepper
Limes
Grated parmesan or cotija cheese
Salt
Napkins
Optional: mayonnaise and/or mexican crema

Make your batch of popcorn in whatever method you choose (I do stove-top). Make more than you think you'll want. Melt some butter. Drizzle it over the top of the popcorn and toss. (If you're feeling crazy, you could try whisking the melted butter with some mayonnaise before pouring it over the popcorn.) Season with salt (don't use kosher--it'll fall right off) and chile powder or cayenne (or both) to taste. Sprinkle with a good amount of the grated cheese. Squeeze some fresh lime juice over the top. Enjoy. (I've never tried this, but you could also drizzle with a little mexican crema before serving. Might be delish, or it could make the popcorn soggy. If you try it, let me know.)

Another favorite variation on this theme: Make popcorn. Toss with green tabasco sauce, squeeze of lime, Lawry's Season Salt, and grated parmesan.

A Lasting Lagasse: A Mouse Bouche on TV!!

Dear Mouse,

BAM!!!!

Whew. I've been holding that in for a while.

It was after all the one word we were told not to utter ... during our taping of "Emeril's Table" for the Hallmark Channel!!!!!!!! last week (ok, two weeks ago. Mea culpa).

Yes, A Mouse Bouche has 'kicked it up a notch' with its first television appearance. It won't air until the fall/winter so hang in there. Also you'll notice that this post is lacking in actual culinary details; we aren't allowed to spill the beans on the menu yet.

As I sat in the makeup chair opposite yours at 9AM, having fake eyelashes applied singly to my lids and learning various beauty secrets (flesh-colored eye pencil on the inner eye rim makes your eyes "pop"! and not in a bad way!), I thought about how I would never have predicted this as my first foray into TV Land. But it makes sense on so many levels.

And of course I'm so glad we did it together. Partly because I think no one would believe me when I described finding ourselves, new lashes and all, seated in a neat row along a wooden kitchen countertop, alongside three other ladies who looked exactly like us (hmmm), across from a fake window through which shone fake daylight across some fake patio furniture, surrounded by giant cameras, breathing in the not-fake aroma of lemongrass and hoisin and soy sauce and boiling noodles and throwing back very real cups of cold sake before noon ... with Emeril Lagasse.


"Kampai!" he shouted, clinking glasses with us while a producer shuffled him into new chef's whites. "We're gonna have a good time in here today!" I didn't have to look at you to know you were thinking the same thing I was: How on earth was this man so cheerful? After all, we had JUST seen him on TV that morning. While we were drinking freshly brewed Emeril's Coffee in the green room and blinking blearily, the man had been up for hours shooting a live episode of Good Morning America. While we scooped up the greek yogurt and blueberries that Martha's people provided for us (good one) and tried to think up questions for "Chef" about Asian cooking, Chef was teaching the GMA staff to grill beef and slice onions, all within a chopstick's throw of a throng of rabid fans. While we got our hair curled (and our bangs trimmed - nice one Mouse!), we watched him, live, doing his thing on the screen, handling the simultaneous tasks of cooking, coaching, hosting, and charming an audience on LIVE TV with complete grace. My respect for the King of Essence, which, to be honest, I wasn't compLETEly in touch with before this gig, made itself felt. The man works hard.

No stale doughnuts and sad corn muffins here. The Mouse serves herself greek yogurt and blueberries, forsaking the granola.

Also the decor was pretty special.

I brought mine from home

I was in midtown last night with our friend Orestes playing some Big Buck Hunter when It occurred to me. IT. By which I mean The Thought, the one that has been trying to get to me for some time now.  ie, several years of doing what it is we do --- a life made up of constant uncertainty,  neverending job hunting and relationships formed at the center of a storm, some of which last forever and some which are gone in the blink of an eye.

I’m there with Orestes and we’re discussing various life choices while shooting digital wildebeest. As I do every time, I lift that plastic orange gun to my shoulder and silently chant the mantra I learned in the army (ok, from a guy who was in the army):

“Slow is smooth, and smooth is Fast.”

It means that, no matter what the situation, panic and rushing will do you no favors. It will only cause you to lose your focus and your footing, and actually slow everything down if not stop it completely. The faster the game is going, the more important this is to remember. It’s the difference between a Perfect Streak Bonus while still nailing all the baboons and losing your whole turn because you shot a cow right out of the gate. Where was I? Oh yes.

And then, right then, this second thought:

Even if you’re juggling many balls, you still can only hold one at a time.
(Please refrain from shouting  “That’s what she said”)

I recently had a conversation with someone in which they were telling me they read an article about how “multitasking makes you stupid”. (Was it you?) And I totally get that... IF it’s the kind of multitasking where you erroneously believe it’s possible to actually do more than one thing at once. You try to focus your mind in several places simultaneously, thereby ensuring that you are not actually focused on anything at all. Then you’re bringing a foggy, insufficient level of attention to several projects that all get done badly because there’s simply less of you, of your brain, to go around.

BUT if it’s the “one ball in the air” kind of juggling where you instead cultivate the ability to rapidly change focus; toggling between several activities with full attention to each one in turn, then you’ve got something. And I would venture to say (with absolutely no expertise to back this up, much like my rock musical about neuroscience that goes up WEDNESDAY-SATURDAY) it probably makes you smarter in the long run. 

Anyway my point (and I do have one, and it’s about food) is that Chef Emeril was one of the best living, breathing examples of a professional juggler I’ve seen recently. I mean, the food was good for sure but a) we’re not allowed to talk about the menu yet and b) frankly, that wasn’t what most stayed with me. What I got out of the experience  - of being ten feet away from a professional chef/seasoned performer  - was the importance of doing. one. thing. at. a time. and doing it well, with ease and grace and awareness of the people around you who are also juggling. The faster the game, the tighter your focus on each thing in turn must be.

When Chef E came into the green room before the gig to shake hands with each of us, he was not somewhere else. He had ten seconds to say hello to each person and inside those ten seconds that’s all he was doing. When the man was reading his cue cards, he was reading them and talking to his audience. When he was answering one of our questions, he was really answering it, when he was taking notes from the producer, he was listening, and when he was mixing up sauce he was mixing up sauce. It only looked like he was doing all these things at the same time.

Well, that’s my Deep Thoughts for the day. To sum up: Chef Emeril juggles, Martha Stewart gives good breakfast, flesh-colored pencil on the inner eye rim, Good Morning America films really early, and there are definitely a lot of women out there who could pass for our sisters. (But there’s only one Mouse Bouche.) When we can actually talk about the menu, we’ll revisit this. In the meantime, I have to plan music rehearsal, re-string my guitar, send out a few invitations to the show, and assemble a vegetable tian for dinner. One thing at a time.

Love,

The Boo

Taking a Mulligan on May.

Dear Boo,

Oh, May! Where did you go? Already the 31st and only two posts to show for it. For shame. But to be fair, you haven't exactly been a kind muse these past few weeks, what with the day after day of pouring rain followed by a sudden and scorching entrance by Summer, the advent of unemployment (read: the state of being, not the weekly check in the mail) and return of summer classes, and the arrival today of a nasty sore throat and itchy ears. But then, perhaps I've neglected you a bit.* I certainly didn't take advantage of your abundance of fresh first picked asparagus shoots at the market, or those tiny precious boxes of strawberries that began appearing on farmstand tables. I admit I share the blame.

On June 30th, I have my first dress fitting for the wedding (I know, I know, I said I wouldn't keep talking about it), and so I decided long ago that my wedding diet would begin June 1st in preparation. So this weekend, I went out with a bang before the ascetic lifestyle was to begin, I thought, on Tuesday. After our Memorial Day picnic of bread, cheese, grapes, blueberries, cheese, salad, cheese, rice chips, wine cake (more on this later) and vodka lemonade yesterday at the Brooklyn Bridge Park, I went home and proceeded to order a bucket of fried chicken with the Fiance. It was, of course, delicious. Lying in bed this morning, as I contemplated what a monk might eat for breakfast, I found myself reciting aloud, "Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November. All the rest have 31...." And then I realized. My diet doesn't start til tomorrow! Bonus. So, how am I spending this precious extra day? As we speak, I am eating a bag of skittles while a pot of cabbage soup simmers on the stove. Less than thrilling stuff over here in this gastronomic corner of the world. Also, I just realized I don't believe in diets. And so, my apologies to you, May, for neglecting you so. On to June, in which I vow to eat better, write more, and do more of this:

Love,

The Mouse

*Okay, so there was the whole graduating thing, and that lovely wedding we went to upstate, and our super-exciting brush with fame, but still....

Shut Up and Listen. (Or: Potatoes, Two Ways)

Dear Boo,

As of last week, I am officially done with school. On May 18th I will be donning cap and gown (the privilege of which cost me $68. Ah higher education) and walking with the rest of my fellow soon-to-be alumni towards... what? A lifetime of being overworked and underpaid? A field that is undervalued and overly relied-upon? Budgets which are constantly being slashed, programs cut, and policies which undermine and make futile any well-meaning attempt to help? Do I sound cynical? Well, naturally. I'm writing to you from the limbo between academia and the real world, poised between two lives (who in their right mind becomes an actor and then chooses social work as a back-up plan? And then decides she likes both too much to leave either one and attempts to find a balance?) and between excitement and terror, inspiration and ambivalence. So forgive the pessimism. The truth is, the past two years have been thrilling. I've been gnawing my nails while writing this because I can't seem to quite put into words what my experience has been or how I feel about it. (Which is ironic since in both my acting training and social work education, there's been an emphasis on being able to identify and express feelings. oops.) And I have no wise words or lively illuminating anecdotes to offer. Except this.

One of the most important things I learned in school is this: Shut up and listen. 'When you don't know what to say,' we were told over and over, 'don't say anything.' 'If you really want to help someone? Shut up and listen.' It's a good bit of advice for all of us, really. And while I wait in this limbo of unemployment and indecision, while I try to figure out what the hell comes next, where I should be heading and how I'm going to pay for it all, I'm going to give it a shot. I will shut up and listen to my heart and gut and in the great social work tradition of optimism and hope, I will trust that whatever bubbles to the surface will guide me. And maybe, one of these days, while peeling potatoes over the sink, I will be listening to the shhhppp of the slicer, the sound of the traffic, and the hum of my own thoughts, and it'll all suddenly make sense. So excuse me. I'm going to shut up now and peel some potatoes.

Love,
The Mouse

In honor of my two careers, my two minds about graduating, and my general indecision, I offer you potatoes, two ways. The first is an easy, decadent, smothered version I found on Ruth Reichl's blog (now there's a career I could get behind!) and made for Easter dinner, but which would be the perfect antidote to any day the unemployed-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life blues hit. The second, is a first on this blog, a recipe from the Fiance. I came home the last day of my field work at NY State Psychiatric Institute to find him making a lovely celebratory dinner. He said he planned to make potato chips in the oven, and I was feeling so grateful for all the love and support and learning in my life and so pleased that I could sit back with a glass of wine and wait for dinner to be served, that I bit my tongue and did not tell him what I was thinking, which is that there was no way those little discs of potato would emerge from the oven alive. I was certain they would instantly burn to a crisp and refuse to part from the surface of the pan. How wrong I was. They were a revelation--crispy, crunchy, satisfying, and relatively healthy. If you've ever met me, you know potato chips are my absolute favorite desert-island food. There is nary a life decision to be made that isn't made better by a chip or two.

Gratin Dauphinois

via Ruth Reichl, via Jacques Pepin

2 1/2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, thinly sliced
3 1/2 cups of milk, cream or a mixture of the two
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
a bit of freshly grated nutmeg
3/4 cup coarsely grated Gruyère (or other cheese - any one will do).

Preheat oven to 400°F. Generously butter a shallow baking dish.

Put the potatoes into a pot with the milk or cream, garlic, salt, and pepper and bring just to a boil. Pour the contents of the pot into the buttered baking dish, grate the nutmeg over the top and sprinkle on the cheese. Bake for about 45 minutes, until the top is browned and all the liquid has been absorbed by the potatoes. Allow this to stand for 15 minutes (or more) before serving.

Oven Potato Chips
by the Fiance

Yukon Gold or Russet Potatoes, how ever many you want
Some olive oil
Good amount of salt
Black pepper
Garlic powder (or other seasonings as you choose)

Using a mandolin, slice potatoes very thin. Pat them dry. Place them in a ziploc bag with a generous amount of olive oil, the pepper and garlic powder. Toss together until well coated and distributed. Lightly oil a couple of baking sheets. Lay potato rounds in a single layer on pans. Put in a 450 degree oven for about 15 minutes, but check as you go so they don't burn. Timing will vary depending on your pans, the thickness of the chips, and the oven. Sprinkle with salt while hot. Let cool in single layer on rack or plate.

Spring Chicken; A Fairy Tale

Dear Mouse,

Once upon a time in New York City, two sisters made May Eve Dinner.

They just about fit in the kitchen.

They dined atop a high hill on the 7th floor overlooking 7th avenue, on the 30th night of the 4th month of the year, with The Fiance and Mr. & Mrs. Mighty Hunter in attendance. Mr. & Mrs. MH are a lovely pair of fellow theatremakers with healthy appetites for good seasonal food and the celebration of arcane holidays. They came bearing wine and a delightful spinach-strawberry-cucumber salad. So far, so good.

They tasted the gravy and it was good.

As everyone knows, May Eve is a magical night where strange things can happen.

No, not that. **

One sister set out to write a final paper, but somehow it turned into a lemon tart!

... and then it disappeared...

And the other sister made the Roast Spring Chicken from Sarah Leah Chase's "Cold Weather Cooking". (Can you guess which sister?) It was said afterwards she must have used faery magic, for how could such a delicious, fragrant roasted meat result from only 5ingredients (not counting chicken) and only a 4-step recipe? (The simplicity makes this very affordable...though I recommend putting those extra dollars into a really really good bird... like the 4lb 'Red Cockerel' I bought from Dickson's Farmstand Meats... uh, I mean, that I won from the Faery Queen after I beat her at Buck Hunter. Um.. whatever. Where was I?)

"We have too many chicken recipes already", the first sister warned. "Post something else."

Right you are.

The Boo's Home-Brewed May Eve Love Potion Tea

(... a refreshing beverage. This is a good non-alcoholic aperitif which would also probably be awesome in your prosecco)

fresh red rose petals

dried damiana leaf (available at Flower Power in the East Village or similar)

fresh mint leaves

honey or agave syrup (optional)

Damiana leaf is a sort of spearmint-meets-anise-tasting herb that is rumored to be aphrodisiac and also to have perhaps been used in the original margarita recipe... of all things. Live and learn.

Pour 2 C boiling water over 1 C fresh rose petals in heatproof bowl. Let steep until cool, drain. Reserve the lovely pink liquid. Pour 1 C of boiling water over 1-2 heaping tsp damiana leaf in teapot. Throw in a few mint leaves. Steep 20 min. (This makes 1 Cup;obviously use more of both depending on how much tea you want). Add maybe 1/4 C of the rose water and some sweetener of choice, stir while still warm. Serve cold with a mint leaf or two.

Happy May!

Love,

The Boo

** PorkHart, a live band burlesque experiment helmed by The Boo and The Mayor last week in celebration of spring. No food was served.

When Life Gives You Self-Rising Flour...

Dear Mouse,

Ah, spring.

"When birds do sing Hey ding a ding ding/Sweet lovers love the spring" -As You Like It

"Why should a woman cook? So a man can say, 'My wife makes a wonderful cake' ... to some hooker?" - Joan Rivers

It's April. (Freezing, freezing April.) And that can only mean three things: Home, Spring and Birthday Cake! Specifically, your birthday cake! Yes, Home is where the Hart is... and, also, the bag of self-rising flour that I shipped home from Kentucky ... and also a tub of frozen, pink, leftover Magnolia-Cupcake-Recipe-Icing that I made months ago and totally forgot about! Score.

The Magnolia Cupcake recipe, in the form of a two-layer cake, has been my go-to Birthday confection since I first made it for you a few years back. The recipe is ALL about excess--two kinds of flour (self-rising and regular), four eggs in the cake, two boxes of confectioner's sugar. Each time, try as I might to use all the frosting, there is always a significant amount left over (and you know I like me some frosting).

The bag of flour is another story. I'd had it shipped it from Kentucky along with some other baking staples, partly because shipping was free, partly because I couldn't stand to waste it, and partly because I had formed a sort of perverse sentimental attachment to it. It had been, well, meant for someone else's birthday cake. And, well, the night before I was to make it, the idea of "baking" got replaced with "throwing a jealous tantrum in the parking lot" ... and it never happened. (In my defense, it was the Spring Equinox. Also, I was provoked. My point is, no cake. I did stop short of giving him the bag of flour with a candle stuck in it as I'm pretty sure that's a fire hazard oh god it's all so embarrassing let me redeem myself with a dessert recipe.)

Here's the cake I just made for your birthday celebration tonight! Isn't it PRETTY?

OK, 'attractive'? "Striking"? Whatever, it'll taste good.

It's kind of a 'Magnolia-Light" version (HA). Since I only had enough frosting for the top of the cake (rather than the usual all-over and between-layers), I improvised with a strawberries-and-whipped-cream filling. I think the restraint makes for a more Spring-y, hopeful, romantic dessert. I can't wait to try it.

Though now I think of it, this would be perfect for that "pie in the face" comedy sketch we've been working on...

Now, of course you might say it's a bit headstrong and impatient and dare I say perhaps irrational and impulsive to post a recipe before it's been tested, and to that I say,

"WHAT THE @$&(*??? WHO THE #(%^$@ IS SHE? HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?????!!"

Happy Birthday! Recipe Below.

Love,

The Boo.

The Boo's Magnolia-Style "Sweet Lovers Love the Spring" Birthday Cake

FOR CAKE:

1 1/2 Cups Self-Rising Flour

1 1/4 C Regular Flour

2 sticks (1 C) butter

2 C sugar

1 C milk

1 tsp vanilla

4 eggs

Preheat oven to 350. Mix the flours in a small bowl, set aside. Cream butter, then gradually add sugar and beat until "fluffy". Add eggs one at a time, beating after each. Add the flours in THREE parts, alternating with milk and vanilla; mix each time just enough to blend; do not overbeat. Pour it in two round greased cake pans (I used Pam baking spray; yes I did). Bake 20-25 min until a knife comes out clean. COOL - for the love of Mike - COOL them COMPLETELY before attempting to frost.

While cakes bake, make icing...

FOR ICING (I've halved the full recipe here)

1 stick (1/2 C) butter, softened

3 or 4 C (i'm gonna say 1 box) confectioner's sugar

1/4 C milk

1 tsp vanilla

Place the butter in a large mixing bowl. Add 2 C of the sugar and then the milk and vanilla.

beat until smooth and creamy, about 3 to 5 minutes. Gradually add the remaining sugar, 1 cup at a time, beating well after each addition (about 2 minutes), until the icing is thick enough to be of good spreading consistency. To your taste; you may or may not use all the sugar (though if you like magnolia cupcake icing, you will). If desired, add a few drops of food coloring and mix thoroughly. (Use and store the icing at room temperature because icing will set if chilled.) Icing can be stored in an airtight container for up to 3 days. (NOte from The Boo: It CAN be frozen and then brought back to room temp before spreading).

...and whipped cream filling:

strawberries, several

1 C heavy cream

1 tsp vanilla

a bit (1/2 tbsp?) powdered sugar if you have it

Beat it til it's whipped cream. Slice a bunch of strawberries, thinly.

When cakes are cool, gently remove from pans. Set first layer on the cake platter. Spread whipped cream thickly across center. Arrange strawberries in single layer. Gently place second cake layer on top the strawberries. Go to town with icing, all over top of the cake and if you wish also around bottom layer (but leave center visible; the whipped cream and berries peeking out look pretty.)

Nothing Better

Dear Boo,

Let's be honest. I like to toot my own horn for being an adventurous eater with a sophisticated palate and a few neat tricks in the kitchen. But when it comes down to it, is there really anything better than pasta with sauce and cheese? I'm gonna have to say no.

Unless, that is, it's pasta with sauce and cheese that's been baked to piping perfection, with spots of melted creamy mozzarella and bechamel swirled messily into the chunky rich tomato sauce, alternating with spots of crunchy, crispy, burnished crust of salty parmesan and bread crumbs, eaten at a table shared with good friends, alongside a delicious velvety glass of wine (or two), on a late Sunday afternoon right when those Sunday blues you've known since the age when life began to organize itself around Monday mornings and deadlines and homework, during a long, cold, gray month when apparently someone forgot to send a memo to the northeast letting us know it's actually SPRING and has been for quite some time.

Yup, nothing better.

Love,

The Mouse

Mario Batali's Ziti Al Telefono (or rigatoni, as is the case in the above photo) Makes 4 Servings (Ha. I was afraid this wouldn't be enough to feed us all, but we ended up sending some home with our guests, and eating it for days after. Don't fret.)

1 pound ziti
2 cups Basic Tomato Sauce (recipe below, or use your own)
2 cups Besciamella (recipe below)
1 pound fresh buffalo mozzarella, cut into 1/2 in cubes
1/2 cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano
1/2 cup fresh bread crumbs

Preheat the oven to 425. Bring 6 quarts of water to a boil in a large pot, and add 2 tablespoons salt. Cook the ziti for 2 minutes short of the package instructions; it should be too al dente to eat. Drain and rinse under cold water until cool. Drain a second time and place in a large bowl. Add the tomato sauce, besciamella, mozzarella, and Parmigiano to the ziti and stir to mix well. Place the pasta into a casserole dish (or divide into 4 individual gratin dishes as Mario would have you do) and sprinkle with the bread crumbs (I sprinkled also with a bit of parmesan and drizzled some olive oil over the top.)
Bake for about 20 minutes, until bubbling and crusty on top.
Serve with Ina Garten's Roasted Broccoli if you know what's good for you.


Basic Tomato Sauce
Makes 4 cups

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 spanish onion, cut into 1/4 in dice
4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
3 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme
1/2 medium carrot, finely shredded
2 28-oz cans whole tomatoes
salt

In a 3 qt saucepan heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook until soft, about 8-10 minutes. Add the tomatoes with their juice, and bring to a boil, stirring. Lower the heat and simmer until thick, about 30 minutes. Season with salt.


Besciamella
Makes about 3.5 cups

5 Tablespoons unsalted butter
1/4 cup all purpose flour
3 cups whole milk
2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

In a medium saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the flour and stir until smooth. Cook, stirring, until light golden brown, 6 to 7 minutes. Meanwhile, in another medium saucepan, heat the milk to just under a boil. Add the milk to the butter mixture about 1 cup at a time, whisking constantly until very smooth, and bring to a boil, whisking. Cook, whisking, until thickened, about 10 minutes; remove from the heat. Season with the salt and nutmeg. Transfer to a bowl and let cool, then cover and refrigerate until ready to use.

Good Bye, KY, Well It's Time To Go

Dear Mouse,

Wah.

Is this ever going to get easier?

* There's a lot of pictures in this one. Kick back. Also, ponder the miracle of how I lost 6lbs while consuming everything you see here.*

the french fries at this tiny truck in Old Louisville, where there's barely enough room to order, will change your life.

Strawberry Rhubarb a la Mode at the Homemade Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen on Bardstown Road.

This guy got the chocolate cherry pie.

"You know..." said Dennis as we walked home from my reality-check final music gig in Louisville (ie; no money, no audience, no stage, and NOT part of, say, this groovy, well-publicized, beautifully run festival that has spoiled me here) "I am really depressed right now."

He didn't mean my gig (oh, I also had to follow a guy doing magic tricks). He meant the fact that Humana is drawing to a close. We're in the middle of the big final Industry Weekend, which is very exciting, and then we close tomorrow, which is kinda hard to believe. Only one more performance of this epic, beautiful, challenging play, and the end of a life-changing, messy, exhausting, highly rewarding, two months.

"Vintage Bourbon". That's the name. $75 a bottle. Tastes like butter on fire.

There is always, I suppose, going to be after-show crash, but this one I can already tell has the potential of being a larger black hole than most. Last night we were all out at a regular spot, the Old Seelbach Bar of the Hilton, to mark the first night of Industry Weekend 2. Amid the buzz and celebration, we settled into our first round, smiled at the wave of colleagues pouring in ... and then one of our number actually put his head down on the table and wailed,

"I dont wanna go back to New York!!!!!"

R to L, The Mother! and friend CM, at Lynne's Paradise Cafe, where you should go for brunch and parking lot shenanigans like this.

That is, if you can't get into TOAST on Market.

Yep. How did we get here? I never thought I'd say it, but I'm really gonna miss Kentucky for several reasons. One is, of course, this gig... but there are others. The QUIET. The SPACE - !! Even the most casual restaurant takes up, like, a whole building. You can stretch your arms out on the sidewalk and not hit anyone. The Victorian houses in Old Louisville.

The 'Pink Palace' is haunted.

Porches! Porch Swings! Magnolia trees! The private "Womens Gym" at the Y where I never have to wait for a treadmill. The $3.50 glass of Maker's Mark at Freddie's Bar around the corner. People who say hello in the elevator and chat with you at the grocery store. Servers in restaurants who cheerfully offer- offer!! - to split your party's check nine ways, every time! I've actually started saying "Yes, Mam" and "No Sir" while making eye contact. I've grown used to standing on my balcony every morning, coffee in hand, while listening to music and gazing out over the city to the Ohio River.

And of course the theatre. The enthusiasm and support and professionalism and multiple venues and dressing rooms and light plot and staff and fog machines and trap room I could go on but let's get to...

...the really important things about Louisville, such as:

I have now been to this delicious, Brooklyn-style teahouse restaurant three times in one week.

It is NOT to be missed. AND rumor has it it's actually coming to Brooklyn.

for bourbon bread pudding...

or "roadkill stew", featuring venison.

'corn pone' and incredible braised greens with bacon on the side.

and, of course, delicious, beautifully presented tea, which i normally dont give two s*ts about. Not pictured but also tried: the "smokey chai" served in a glass jar with a handle.

Behold: the Maple Frosted Bacon Donuts at Nord's Bakery. I walked FOUR miles round trip before an industry matinee to get these. Reserve the day before because they sell out by 7AM.

Next door at Sunergos' Coffeeshop, the cute hippie barista recommended the Costa Rican. I was in no way prepared for how FREAKING DELICIOUS this coffee was. Smooth, nutty, mellow, but, like, for real, and not like when people usually use these words to describe coffee and it just tastes like coffee. Amazing. Drink this coffee.

Hm. Am I forgetting anything?

Pulled Pork Tacos at Doc Crow's on Main, where you should go before or after a show at ATL. O'Shea's next door: also not too shabby. Great bar, good bison burger.

OK I think that's it for now. Was it all rosy? No. Do I have any cautionary notes? Yes. Don't get pizza in Kentucky, and under no circumstances should you ever, EVER drink this:

... which was presented to me as "whiskey", which it surely is not.

As I was starting this blog post at 2AM, Dennis sent me this email, which I think says it all (and which I think might also be haiku):

Write something in ur blog
About the kentucky fried sadness I feel

I hope I've done so. Goodbye, KY ... But first, one more party and one more show. Moon ON.

Love,

The Boo